


The Magic of Touch

by hidden_mochii



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:05:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27400147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hidden_mochii/pseuds/hidden_mochii
Summary: Among the Aen Seidhe touch was a language unto itself, so why did Iorveth bother to let Roche in on it, and why was Roche able to understand it so well.The war is over and Iorveth and Vernon Roche only have themselves.
Relationships: Iorveth/Vernon Roche
Comments: 11
Kudos: 41





	1. Chapter 1

Iorveth absolutely understood why his first instinct was to reach out and touch Roche to steady his nerves. Touch was its own language among the Aen Seidhe, one he found himself often relying on when he didn't know how to help otherwise.

What he didn’t understand was, why he was concerned about Vernon Roche of all peoples nerves, or why Roche had so willingly accepted the gesture, leaned into it even. 

They had both found themselves in the same crowded meeting, both men with supposedly important post-war jobs. But most likely it, was just the easiest way that Emhyr could figure out how to keep tabs on them. Iorveth had found a secluded spot in the very back of the room where he had fully intended to doze off, until a thin figure, one he had almost not recognized sat down uncomfortably near him. 

Iorveth shot the mysterious man a glare when he recognized him, Vernon Roche of all men had just sat down next to him, wordlessly. He must have recognized Iorveth, hadn’t he? Roche seemed smaller, his uniform replaced with something non-descript, grey, but well made looking. And he had lost the stupid hat too, whatever it was called. In its place was hair that was both longer and darker than what Iorveth had imagined it would be. He looked straight, at Iorveth, dark eyes boring through him, and simply said “I don’t want to talk to anyone. This is okay?” 

Iorveth could only nod dumbly. 

And talk to no one Roche did. Not Iorveth, not anyone in the meeting. People looked past the two of them as if they were both ghosts, and they were he supposed. Rathe than doze off Iorveth couldn’t help but to watch Roche. He had pulled out a small notebook, and began to of all things doodle. Roche must have noticed and angled the sketchbook so that Iorveth could better see, to his surprise. “It’s not exactly a masterpiece.” Roche replied to the open air, perhaps surprised that Iorveth had taken an interest in it. 

After a few more moments of aimless sketching, Iorveth watched Roche dig into the pockets of his coat. “Gods dammit” he spoke softly to himself. And for the first time Iorveth spoke, or mumbled at least. “Hmm?”

“Forgot my matches” 

“I have some.” Iorveth replied, a bit quicker than he’d wanted too, hoping to keep the conversation going but not quite knowing how. “Are you going out to smoke?” 

“Yeah”

Iorveth offered the small box in Roche’s direction, “Mind if I join?” 

Roche paused and replied “I suppose not.” 

And as the ghosts that they were the two got up and left without so much as a nod in their direction.

Iorveth followed behind the other man towards the alleyway. He took note of the fact that Roche seemed now to favor one leg. He wondered what had happened to the man since he’d lost tabs of him. When they reached the spot tucked away from the rest of the world, Iorveth lit a match and handed it to Roche. Roche lit his pipe, Iorveth did the same, and they just stood there in wordless comfort, smoking and enjoying the others company he supposed. 

Iorveth was the first one to break the silence “I wasn’t sure if you recognized me at first.” 

Roche who had zoned out, focusing on a nearby blacksmiths stall replied, “I didn’t think it needed to be said.” He turned his head and gave Iorveth the faintest smile, “Besides, how could I not.”

Iorveth didn’t have an answer and they went back to smoking in comfortable silence.

The silence was suddenly interrupted when a clattering of dropped metal at the smithing stall fell to the ground. 

The clang of metal against metal was enough to make Iorveth jump and gasp for breath. He looked over to Roche, his fingers clenched tightly around his pipe which now sat at his waist, eyes closed, trying to steady his breath. It was clear to Iorveth that this wasn’t the first time that this had happened to Roche. He didn’t understand the sudden urge to ease the mans discomfort, but it came to him almost involuntary. 

Iorveth closed in on the small gap between them, hand meeting the small of Roche’s back. “Vernon” he said in an attempt to jostle him back to reality. 

He wasn’t sure what to expect but it certainly wasn’t to feel Roche almost melt into his touch. It was clear that it was a welcomed gesture. Iorveth felt Roche’s breathing steady out and watched as his eyes fluttered back open. “Mhm, thank you” was the response he’d gotten. And Roche made no attempt to pull away from Iorveth’s hand. 

“Your okay.” it was a statement rather than a question on Iorveth’s part. 

Roche’s eyes now met his, “Yeah, my heads been a bit funny since the war ended. Sorry about that.” 

Again in the weird involuntary urge to comfort the man Iorveth spoke again “It’s okay, I jumped at it too. I-” 

Roche exhaled “We should probably head back, before they start to wonder.”

“Yeah, we should” Iorveth’s hand shifted away from the intimate place of the small of his back, to its center, and together they walked back to the meeting. Roche relishing in Iorveth’s touch the entire walk back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A much shorter chapter, because I don't quite know how to write in Roche's voice.

Roche had been watching the smithing stall just moments before the blacksmith had dropped the cache of metal onto the ground below. He had seen the man struggling to carry it over, and realistically, he should have expected it.

But that hadn't stopped him from freezing up completely in a panic, the sound of the clanging metal had forced memories of things that he would much rather have kept in the past. Of battles, the tail end of the war, the relentless onslaught of death. His men. Everything. In that moment Roche had felt as though he were back there, he smelled rot and death where there had not been any before, and it threatened to drown him. This wasn't the first time it had happened either, he had been set off by similarly small things ever since he had quit being a soldier. 

And in response the only thing that he could muster himself to do was to force his eyes shut and desperately try to reason that none of this was currently happening. He had been a commander once before, he felt pathetic. Especially when he had started losing the argument in his own head. Roche had dismissed men who couldn't handle the realities of war plenty of times in years past, but what was he supposed to do now that he was among them?

In the midst of his panic, Iorveth, of all people had pulled him out of it. He knew in the sanest corners of his mind that he wouldn't be able to hold his composure much longer. He was so close to breaking, and it was never dignified when he did. 

Then seemingly out of nowhere, there was a reassuring hand at the small of his back, one of his favorite spots to be touched. Roche had forgotten that Iorveth had followed him out to smoke, that Iorveth had been worried that he might not have recognized him. That he had taken an interest in his mindless doodles of all things. 

He didn’t understand. Why had Iorveth taken concern for him? If anything he had every right to relish in Roche’s anxiety. 

But he hadn't, almost as soon as Roche had begun to panic there was a reassuring nudge that he wasn't utterly alone in his fear. He had called Roche by his first name, something that never happened in sincerity. He had been the first person in years to touch him without the intent to cause him pain. It was absolutely disorienting. Beyond that, once Roche's nerves had settled, Iorveth hadn't backed off, he tried to reassure Roche that he also jumped and felt uneasy at the otherwise insignificant. But Roche in a moment of deep shame, had brushed the conversation aside, ending it almost as soon as it had begun. He now wishes he hadn't done that.

Despite this, Iorveth had not stopped touching him the whole walk back to their meeting. He had simply shifted to the far less intimate center of his back. To onlookers they probably looked like old friends. And then almost wordlessly, they split ways. 

Now back in the small flat that he called home, Roche could not stop thinking about Iorveth's hand on the small of his back, and all of the other places he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to admit he wanted Iorveth to touch him.


End file.
